Tragic Prick in the Sunrise
by jumpingdowntherabbithole
Summary: Eridan gets his picture taken, and gets a phone number in return. Rated T for swearing.
1. Chapter 1

Your name is Eridan Ampora and you fucking hate your brother. He's the reason why you're sitting on a cold park bench at midnight with only your iPod and yourself for company. That asshole thinks he rules the house as soon as your dad leaves for some business trip or other. As soon as your dad pulled away in his fancy purple car, Cro dials up everyone on the fucking planet and invites them over for a party. Unfortunately, even though your brother has no friends, people came. Plenty of people. A whole stream of college kids flooded into your house, and so you had to leave. If you had one more pair of drunk assholes break down your door looking for a place to fuck, someone might've ended up dead, and you don't think prison life would suit you.

You groan and squirm deeper into your oversized hoodie, trying to beat the cold. If you'd have known you'd be spending your Friday night outside in the late fall chill, you'd have brought something warmer - not to mention more stylish. Your ass has gone numb from the metal of the bench and your fingertips are following in its footsteps from clutching your iPod. You consider folding all your limbs inside the body of the sweatshirt and making it a kind of tent, but you do have a little dignity you'd like to uphold. The sweet voice of some obscure indie singer you pretend to like is slowly lulling you to sleep, and you have to actually make an effort to keep your eyes open. You usually go to bed much later than this, but without internet to entertain you, it's getting kind of hard to stay awake. Anyway, if you end up getting killed by a hobo for your iPod and expensive shoes, Cro will totally get grounded, you think as you slowly fall asleep. Like most people, when you're tired, most of your self-preservation and logic go down the drain.

You wake up - even though you were not asleep, of course - some time later, because you hear a strange clicking sound over the song 4'33 that you downloaded for the irony of it and never got around to deleting. Opening your eyes is harder than lifting weights, but the sound is so misplaced and weird, you have to. Across the park, some hipster in a red tee is taking pictures of trees with an old-fashioned camera. You roll your eyes and then close them again - _ugh, hipsters._ The four and a half minutes of silence ends and you fall back asleep to something actually good, but that's so mainstream you'd never admit to liking it.

_Click, click. _Your eyes open more easily this time, and you see a gigantic black lens in your face. The hipster is leaning over you, shoving the thing in your face and snapping pics. You flail at him sleepily and consider screaming for your life, but you don't think he's gonna hurt you, and even so, you could probably take him in a fight. He gets the message your aimless waving about is sending, though, and steps off, sitting down beside you on the bench. You can't see his eyes behind those fucking stupid shades, but his mouth is split into an asshole grin. He says something but your music is too loud, so you hold up one finger for silence, and pause the ear-shattering tunes, before looking back up at him.

"I said," he smirks a bit, "I'm gonna call this one 'Tragic Prick in the Sunrise."

You hold up a different finger this time and he chuckles.

"What do you want?" you try to say, but sleep slurs it and it comes out more, "Whaddyawan?"

The message still gets through though, "Just wanna know why you're so well-dressed for a hobo."

"'M not a hobo," you mutter, "I'm just tryin a catch a nap in fuckin peace."

"Good luck with that," he says, but still doesn't leave the bench. As far as you can tell he's deeply immersed in flipping through the pictures on his retro camera thing. He seems to be oblivious to the fact you want him to go away, so you stretch out your legs and push him with your feet, trying to make your will more evident. It might've worked better if your legs weren't so short, or if shifting your position didn't suddenly let a rush of cold air invade your personal space. As it is, he barely notices your purple Converses pushing on the side of his leg. He doesn't look like he's gonna move any time soon, but if all he wants to do to you is take pictures, you wager it's probably safe enough to fall back asleep. If he wanted to try something on you, he could have done it before, when you were sleeping more deeply. You switch back on your iPod and drift off.

When you wake up for the third time, you're alone on the bench. The weird photographer guy is gone, and you yawn and sit up, stretching out sore limbs. Your neck feels like someone practiced kung fu on it and you can't feel your ass for the cold. You probably look like shit too. You stagger home, half-asleep, and pray that Cro will let you in, because you forgot to bring your keys. There really wasn't any need to beg help from the deities, though, because the front door is wide open. Being an idiot is a side-effect of drinking. You shut and lock the door behind you, thankful that all the college people seem to have cleared off, except for your brother, who's sprawled, half-naked and drunk off his ass, on the couch surrounded by the disaster scene of a party. You make a mental note to scream in his ear loudly when he wakes up with a massive hangover.

It's when you're changing out of your sweater for a shower when you notice the camera hipster didn't only leave a strange impression with you. He also happened to leave what you presume to be his phone number in a messy scrawl on your left hand. You contemplate this as you wash your hair and slip into pajamas for a nap. What the hell, maybe you'll text the guy when you wake up, it's not like your life is overflowing with people to talk to, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thought in your mind after a long, luxurious, and peaceful nap is "fuck." You sit up quickly and look at your left hand. Just as you realized at an indeterminate point in your slumber, the water from your shower has smudged the phone number. Six numbers are legible enough, but the seventh, like a lone sacrifice is smeared. Dead. Gone. Fuck. Just as something had promised to liven up your dreary life, you have to be the idiot who destroys it. You try to stop self-loathing and instead go downstairs to find some shit to eat: food makes everything better.

You trudge down the carpeted stairs, weaving around empty beer bottles and chip bags left over from your brother, Cro's party last night. The asshole in question is already at the table, chewing on a spoonful of cereal morosely, and wincing at the sunlight streaming through the window. The curtains are heaped on the floor and stained with an unidentified substance. You smirk, Cro has got a day's work ahead of him for sure.

You plop down in the chair next to him with a bagel, "Hey, Cro!" You shout, obnoxiously loud and cheerful. His reaction is perfect, he jumps and then clutches at his head and groans.

"Fuck off, asshole," he responds, and you grin at this display of brotherly affection, before chowing down on your bagel. You slept on a cold park bench last night because of him, and it's time for revenge. You contemplate everything you can do to get him back as finishes his cereal and pulls out a cigarette.

Your obnoxious brother instincts kick in, "Dad, said no smokin'. Especially not inside."

"I'm not gonna fuckin' light it, okay?" Well, someone's been reading John Green.

"You know what else Dad said? No parties," Your face hurts from grinning. When your dad finds out, Cro is totally dead.

"He's never gonna find out, so you can shut the fuck up, Eridan."

"What makes you think he wont find out?"

"If you tell him, I will fuckin' dismember you."

"I meant, did you notice all the shit spread over the house? Little noticeable isn't it? There's no way you can clean it up in time."

"Don't worry, _I_ won't be cleanin' it," He snatches the half-finished bagel out of your hands, "Come on, asshole, you have a lot of work ahead of you."

You give him an unbelieving look, "What the fuck makes you think I'm gonna clean this up?"

"This," he holds up a small, violet book, smirking, and your mind goes blank with fear. How the fuck did he find your diary?

He flips it to a random page and starts reading silently, his shit-eating grin only widening, "Oh boo hoo, no one likes me, blah blah, I'm so lonely, blah de fuckin blah. Who's Fef?"

You're contemplating how much it would hurt him if you stabbed him with his spoon, but instead you just lunge for the book. He laughs and holds it over your head where you can't reach it. You jump around in an undignified manner, spewing profanity, as he waves it about and laughs at you. You start trying to claw him up with your fingernails, but he puts one hand on your forehead to hold you back.

"Careful, little bro," You stop fighting, panting but still ready to seriously maim him, "The only way you're getting this back is if the house is spotless before Dad gets home."

"And if I don't?" You're giving him a death glare, but he knows he has utter control over you because of the book in his hand.

"If you don't, I will read this book from cover to cover. I will make a blog solely based upon the content of this book. I will print flyer versions of this book and hand them out at the mall. I will fuckin' publish this book if you don't do everythin' I tell you to."

A part of you wants to burst out in tears for the unfairness of your situation, another part says to just follow his orders, but the loudest part is still telling you to stab him to death with the spoon.

"Fine. I'll clean the fuckin' house. Now give my fuckin' diary back,"

You stretch out your hand but he just walks away, calling over his shoulder, "I'll give it back when you're done,_ if _you're done before Dad gets home."

So your afternoon is spent tidying up every little piece of shit left abandoned around the house from all the assholes your brother invited over. Cro just watches you and mockingly opens your diary when you "slow down". You clean as quickly as you can, fueled by hatred and frequent shots of caffeine, and by the time you hear your dad pull up in the driveway, you're just replacing the last couch cushion - which was for some reason in the fireplace. You collapse in a plump chair and close your eyes, exhausted. The door opens and slams shut again. You jump up to go welcome your dad back home, but as you see him storm through the front hall and straight to his office, you decide against it. He's never been quite the loving type, and for a second you feel desperately and miserably lonely. You push it aside and ignore that feeling, though. You have a hipster to text.


	3. Chapter 3

You quickly educate yourself about telephone numbers, figuring out that finding your hipster may be easier than previously thought. The numbers go from zero to nine, and if you're only missing the last digit, that means there are ten possible numbers. On the other hand, this means you'll have nine wrong number apologies to give. But it's a chance you're willing to take. You send out ten casual "hey" texts to ten different numbers and wait. And wait. And wait. And - okay, you discover that you have no patience. You put your phone as far away from you as possible in your room to try to reduce the temptation of checking it every five seconds and try to busy yourself with random shit. You post on your blog about the events of last night, making sure to end with a "stay tuned for more". You surf the internet for a while, watch some music videos, and end with realizing you're bored as fuck. Well, it can't hurt to check your phone now.

You've gotten three replies. Score! With slightly childish excitement, you grab your phone and jump onto your bed, unlocking it before you land. The first reply is simply "hi", the second is a polite "you've got the wrong number, bro" and the third is a string of foreign characters. Japanese or some shit and probably not your photographer. You delete the second two numbers and reply to the first: "are you the guy from last night?". After a bit a reply pops up: "prob not. wanna talk anyway?". You delete that number too.

It takes about forty minutes and an episode of a shitty show you're hooked on for a fourth reply.

"are you the tragic prick"

It's him! You quickly unlock your phone and then spend five minutes trying to think of a clever response. Come on, you can't just say "yeah" or something equally as boring. Shit, your brain is absolutely free of anything witty. You consider using the internet to find something to say back, but then you'd have to commit suicide if someone ever found your search history. Come on, just write anything. But what? You painfully type out your message.

"only if youre that hipster douche"

You cringe at your hum-drum response. Not original or anything. To your relief, he texts back pretty quickly.

"no"

Your heart drops, is this another wrong number?

"im the cool kid who was exploring the art of photography"

You smile.

"only a hipster wwould wwear sunglasses at night"

The "..." sign pops up instantly. You're managing to hold a conversation without fucking up. Gold star for you, Eridan.

"ever heard of corey hart"

"its an irony thing"

Well then. He might be a weirdo, but at least this guy sounds interesting.

"wwell its your life"

You wish you had something cooler to say.

"the fuck is up with your w"

Shit, he noticed. Not that you could miss it.

"wwell, once upon a time my phone wwas broken by my asshole of a brother and evver since I cant type vvs or wws normally"

You guys text for a good hour or two, and he tells you about himself, about his own brother, about his web comic which sounds fucking stupid - but which you plan on reading anyway, and about his strange obsession with apple juice - and how he can't drink it anymore due to paranoia. In return, you tell him stories about growing up with Cro, and about your obsession with war stories. He asks you stuff about yourself like he really cares, and it's so nice to talk to someone like that for once. You don't remember the last conversation you had with someone who actually considered you a friend. Well, okay, you do. You just don't want to think about it. Fef had been your best friend for as long as the both of you could remember and just recently you guys stopped talking. You still remember the last thing she said, which isn't as poetic or deep as you would have liked: "I'm sorry, Eridan, but I can't be friends with you if you're going to hit on me all the time. It makes me uncomfortable, and if you keep it up, I'll get a restraining order."

Not exactly the stuff of deep poems, though it gets you emotional like poetry is supposed to. It's really fucking sad. Your best friend left you because you loved her. You haven't tried to talk to Fef since, even though you miss her. If she doesn't want you in her life, you're not going to force yourself into it. Whatever, the past is in the past. She's moved on, and so will you. You're already on your way to making friends - you had a text conversation with a guy you slept on a park bench with. Yes, you know that sounds suspicious. If anyone ever asks how you two met, years from now, when you've become inseparable, you'll probably make up something classier.

But now, as you read your new potential friend's unbearably shitty web comic, you let yourself grin a bit. It feels good to have a person to talk to.

**A/N dedicated to allyisallama ;D**


	4. Chapter 4

"hey you never told me your name"

You can see the text from your comfortable position of having your face squashed on your computer's keyboard. You hope you don't get another imprint on the side of your face from this. It isn't very attractive. You slowly peel your face from the keyboard and stumble across the room to pick up your phone. Somewhere in your mind, your common sense is lecturing you about the fact that your sleep schedule is now pretty fucked up. It's Sunday afternoon, and you've been partially nocturnal all weekend. Your eyes burn slightly - not like they're on fire, more like someone is lightly toasting them. Your common sense also touches on other topics like the fact your diet this weekend was one bagel, a bowl of instant ramen and two cups of green tea with unholy amounts of sugar. So maybe you're not the most healthy guy, but you're probably not the worst, right? And it's not like your parents are around to remind you to take care of yourself. Your dad was gone on another business trip before you even got to say two words to him yesterday, and it's not like your mother's coming back from her comfortable life in who-knows-where. She's the cliché deadbeat dad story, except for the dad part.

"eridan" You reply.

"sounds pretentious"

"im dave by the way" Dave. It has a nice ring to it. Much cooler than Eridan.

"so wwho wwere you named after davve?"

"my name isn't davve its dave" When you see this guy again you're going to have to punch him in the face.

"ill call you wwhatevver I wwant davvvvvvvve"

"so what are you doing today 'eridan'"

"not much davvvvvvvve"

"wanna hang out"

Your heart leaps, surprising you. You've never been a social butterfly like Fef, but why are you getting nervous over something as simple as this? It's not like it's a date or anything. Not that you want to date this hipster you've just met. You may be desperate but you're not a creep. You twiddle your fingers, trying to think of how to answer. You could easily make up an excuse not to go, which might stop your heart from beating as loudly as it is right now, and it would be easier, but on the other hand you do really want to hand out with Dave. It's been so long since you've met up with friends. Your heart, your head, and your stomach butterflies all argue over what you should do, and meanwhile your fingers type out your message.

"sure"

"cool the mall in 30 mins?"

"see you there davvvvvvvve"

And now you have thirty minutes to try to get your appearance and emotions together. Fan-fucking-tastic. You dash over to your full length mirror. Shit, you look like you got run over by a truck. And then stayed in a hospital bed for three months. And then someone messed up your hair. You get out of your week-old pjs, and into jeans, and a grey tee, accessorizing with your favorite blue scarf and a purple hoodie. You look yourself up and down in the mirror. Passable. You run your fingers through your curly, dark hair. Your purple streak is growing out, and you can see your roots. Ugh, it's so much work to maintain a look. There's no way you have enough time to dye it right now, but you might have enough to gel up the front like usual. If you leave it the way it is, flyaway curls and floppy messiness, you're gonna look like someone plopped a small, furred, creature on your head.

After all the hair drama is out of the way and you're already fashionably late, you quickly grab your oversized glasses, and shove them onto your face. Then you stuff your wallet and phone into your jeans' pockets, and head out of your room for the first time in two days. You consider leaving a note concerning your whereabouts, but you'll be back before anyone starts caring. You put in your headphones and start the longish walk towards the mall. You could take the car, but you're sure your sleep deprivation will make you drive like you're drunk, and you'd rather not break your dad's brand new car.

It takes about seven songs for you to get there, and they were all shitty. Your own musical preferences are so embarrassing you can't put them on your IPhone. Come on though, everyone secretly still likes Disney tunes, right? You check the time: 1:38. You're a couple minutes late, like fifteen. At least you look good. You send a "wwhere are you" text to Dave and hop into the conveniently nearby Starbucks to grab something to wake you up. Your phone dings just as you pick up your hazelnut frappe.

"ill find you... lemme guess starbucks?"

You sigh and grab a table to wait. The frappe tastes like heaven in a cup, and you feel better than you have in a long time. As you wait, you watch the other customers. Mostly just groups of teenagers, laughing and talking to each other as they pick up their drinks and bustle out of the café again. Then you have the occasional middle aged woman, sipping tea and reading a paperback from the bookstore next door. There's even an old couple sitting together quietly, holding hands and speaking softly over coffee. The one thing these people have I common is that they're all happy - no matter their age or how many other people they're surrounded by. You sigh, stare back down at your coffee, and wait.


	5. Chapter 5

You barely and thankfully manage not to scream shrilly as someone plops down across from you. You had been so deep in your thoughts you hadn't noticed your friend (is that a proper word to refer to Dave with?) sneak up. Your heart slows down and then speeds up again when you look at him. Without the cover of darkness and a thick hoodie he looks, well, awesome. You hadn't noticed how toned he was, with just the right amount of muscles. You suddenly feel wildly incompetent with your tallish-but-not-in-any-way-built frame and your hair which is just barely passing the not looking like shit test. You think you see the corners of his mouth turn up as he watches you stare at him. Shit. Now he thinks you're a pervert. You quickly try to win back his favor with a witty comment of deep insight,

"H-hi," you stammer out, mentally swearing at yourself like a sailor. He chuckles a bit and you desperately hope you're not blushing. Fuck, what is happening to you? Yes, he's attractive, but there's no reason to get so flustered over it. You sip your latte for an awkward second, trying to regain your composure. A million things run through your head - from 'don't fuck up your first(ish) impression' to 'Eridan, you are not going to develop a crush, that's how you lost Fef" to 'I wonder if he wants a sip of my latte" to "damn, I'd tap that". All this and more goes through your mind in about half a second.

"Nice to meet you in person, Erielle" he replies, cool as a cucumber. You shrug, your mouth full of hazelnut deliciousness. He continues, "When you're not, you know, drunk on a park bench."

You almost spit out your latte, but swallowing it, you laugh, your tension completely evaporated, "First of all, I was sober. Second, nice try but my name is Eri_dan_. I know it's a weird name but - "

He holds up a finger to cut you off, "It was a pun."

You wave your latte in his direction, "Explain, please."

"You see, as we have no plans, I took it upon myself to get us movie tickets and the main character of said movie has a name like-"

"No."

"Yes."

"The Little Mermaid? Really?" You try to seem bored by his choice, but inside you are fucking flipping out. The fact that you're trying to stay calm by repeating _Conceal, don't feel_ to yourself is proof enough of your deepest, darkest secret. You, Eridan Ampora, are a huge fucking Disney fan. You've seen almost every single one of their movies, and you can safely say - only to yourself, of course - that Ariel is your favorite Princess. Shut up, teenage boys are allowed to have favorite Disney Princesses. Unfortunately, you can never tell anyone this secret of yours. You're already enough of a social outcast.

You realize Dave might be feeling a little hurt at your façade of judging his movie choice, but you can't tell behind his shades.

"Ah, sure, I'll watch it. In the name of irony, right?"

"I don't watch kids' movies just for shits and giggles."

You laugh nervously. Yeah, who would watch kids' movies at age seventeen? Definitely not one Mr. Ampora.

Dave grins happily, "I'm kidding, bro. I've seen it and it's pretty good." Phew. If you were in a cartoon, you'd be wiping imaginary sweat from your forehead.

"And what in the world possessed you to do that?" Some voice in your head is chanting _Please don't say girlfriend, please don't say girlfriend_.

"My friend Jade recommended it." Good. You think.

"So when does the movie start?" Dave raises first the ticket and then his oversized watch to his sunglassed eyes.

"In about half a minute."

A rush of happy adrenaline courses through you and you jump up, "Let's go!" You bounce in place slightly with excited energy as he gets up slowly. Too slowly, you decide, and grab his hand without thinking, trying to pull him to his feet quickly. Then you blush and quietly apologize, trying to calm down. He smiles at you, lighting up with your excitement. He grabs your hand and pulls you out of the coffee shop instead. You race to the theater, and arrive out of breath and laughing. As you guys lean against the obnoxiously fake potted plants outside the cinema, panting, Dave suddenly straightens back up again and puts back on his 'cool' persona. That's when you realize he thinks he isn't allowed to be a kid, that he always has to be calm and cool. It makes you kind of sad: you like the Dave that runs laughing through a mall with you.

* * *

First of all, you'd like to officially state that you were not reaching for his hand during the "Kiss the Girl" scene. You were totally reaching for the popcorn, but absorbed in your all-time favorite movie, you somehow managed to awkwardly stroke your friend's hand, earning you the proud achievement of awkwardest person alive. Ever. Unfortunately you had already earned that title ten times over. Sometimes you really hate yourself. Happily, Dave was really cool about it, only teasing you a couple thousand times. Other than that small incident, it was one of the most fun things you've done in recent history. Movies are improved when you have a sarcastic friend quipping in your ear, Dave might not know this, but he's actually pretty fucking hilarious. You were both shaking with silent giggles during the whole thing and you were silently praying none of the little kids sitting around you heard his dirty jokes.

You two part shortly after the movie, promising that you'll have to meet up again sometime soon, and you walk home again in a happy blur, finally collapsing on your bed and staring at the ceiling and grinning like a maniac. You think you like having friends.


	6. Chapter 6

You hate to be that cliché outcast socially awkward kid with daddy issues and no friends at school but... That's kinda your biography. So it's not a small wonder that you hate school. It's a cesspool of teenage hormones and bullying. You do like history class though, you get to learn about wars, which is pretty cool. But you hate being that loner kid. Until a few weeks ago, you had Fef to hang out with, so you were kinda accepted into her clique of snotty assholes, but as soon as she cut ties they went back to shunning you as if they'd never known you. God, school was six hours of hell. No scratch that, at least in hell there'd be like cool flames to entertain you. School was boring as fuck, and even though you only had two years left of high school, your dad is probably going to force you to go to college.

You have a productive first three classes as you manage to completely miss what the teacher was saying and fail a surprise quiz. During fourth period, though, your phone buzzes quietly. It's Dave, of course.

"meet me by our bench once school ends"

You manage not to snort at the fact he refers to the bench where you first met as "our bench", like you two were a couple or something and that was a romantic first date location. That thought makes you happier than it should, and your phone buzzes again. Checking to make sure the teacher is occupied with whatever boring shit she's teaching, you check your phone again.

"its an emergency"

Of course your mind immediately runs through what the emergency is. Is he dying? Probably not. Has he won the lottery? Maybe. Is he ask you out? No. Shut up, Eridan. You tap your foot impatiently through the infinite twenty minutes left of school, trying not to die of suspense. Finally, the bell rings, and you dash out of the classroom, and to the park. Then, remembering your stuff is still in your locker, you run back, get it, and, slowly losing your energy, run to the park.

* * *

Tired from jogging the whole way, you plop down on the bench. Dave doesn't seem to be here yet, so you take a moment to try to straighten out your clothes and hair.

"Eridan."

You jump about five feet and then try to casually act like you didn't just have the shit scared out of you. Dave circles around from behind the bench, holding an unassuming box. He looks slightly pleased about something, possibly about making you jump out of your skin. What an asshole. He sits down next to you.

"What's in the box?"

He looks worried.

"Before I tell you, can I trust you to do a favor for me?"

If that wasn't suspicious enough, you think you can hear scratching coming from inside the box. But he's making this pouty puppy dog face that you can't say no to. You nod and he folds down to the flaps on the top of the box.

Inside is a small, furred animal.

"Dave, why do you have a kitten?"

The kitten meows at hearing itself mentioned

"I need your help," That's when you start to panic a little.

"Dave..?"

"Okay, I know this is probably gonna sound crazy and unreasonable but I need you to adopt this cat." What? Oh hell no! You can't just adopt a cat, your dad would never allow it!

"Yes, Dave, it does sound crazy and unreasonable. There's no way I could possib-"

* * *

And that's the story of how you ended up with a kitten hidden in your room. Damn it! You just can't say no to that face. And the fact that the kitten is adorable as fuck didn't help in the least. You at least managed to tell him it wasn't going to be permanent. Just until you guys could find another home for him. Dave had found the little guy mewling in the streets on his way to school and kept him in his locker during school. Sometime in the day, though, his long-lost common sense kicked in and he realized he couldn't keep the kitty at his house due to the vague 'dangers' there. So, of course, he asks you to take the kitten. Well, at least he said one of his friends might be interested in permanently keeping it, and as soon as she got back from some trip or other she was gonna take him. Said kitten was currently napping on your pillow cutely, but you feel the need to mention that this was after gnawing on a couple of your scarves, and leaving tiny claw marks in your curtains.

"you knoww i really hate you right?"

"aww come on you know you love me" You smile. Of course you do. Another of his texts pops up "hows flounder doing"

"davve you do not get to name the kitten, i'm the one takin care of him an were not evven keepin him"

"who says were not keeping him? rose only said she was interested we don't know if shell actually decide to take him"

"if she doesn't take him im throwwin flounder back out onto the street"

"you started using the name see? you love him" It's not the delinquent cat you love, it's- You quickly derail that train of thought.

"go awway davve i need sleep" It is getting pretty late, but mostly you need to stop talking to him so you can give yourself another do-not-fall-in-love-with-your-friends talks.

He sends you one last text, "meet me after school so we can go buy him real food and toys and shit"

You put your phone on your bedside table and lay down on the bed next to the cat. Your neck complains for the lack of a pillow, but there's no way you're gonna risk waking up that devil incarnate kitten. You turn off your light and stare at the kitten in the darkness. Flounder, you guess. If you're gonna have him for a while you might as well call him by his new name. As you watch him breathe in and out, it makes you think of Dave. You wonder what he was thinking when he saw you sleeping on that bench. You smile and suddenly feel your eyes start to itch, and is your nose running? You sit straight up. Your throat starts tickling and you come to a sad conclusion. You are fucking allergic to cats.


End file.
